No Reason
by Mazmaraz
Summary: TAITO. Life. It means nothing. There is nothing. Just you and a board of haphazardly placed tacks representing a chessboard with no rules, no boundaries, but with a load of moral strings attached ready to trip you up. Catch me. Please. Self Injury.
1. Prologue

"I had to tell you..."  
  
"Gay!"  
  
"Taichi...."  
  
"Your a fag Yama?"  
  
"Tai..."  
  
"Spose it's not really that much of a surprise, the way you dress" he backs away, disgust...I'm foul....he thinks I'm sick.  
  
I have to explain.  
  
"Tai, you don't understand, this changes...."  
  
"What Yamato? This changes nothing?" Angry. "Like hell it doesn't! I'm not hanging out with a friggen queer, ruin my rep, team mates to watch out for, this changes everything!"  
  
I can't look any more. But I still see, his face, anger, frown, the wrinkles between his eyebrows, the creases, his wild hair. Imprinted. Minds eye. He hates me.   
  
Of course he would.   
  
Yamato Ishida.  
  
Gay.  
  
Fag.  
  
Queer.  
  
Queen.  
  
"Yamato?" TK? I'm sorry little brother. Repercussions of my actions. Should've known it'd have hurt you to. Should've known to keep my mouth closed. Gone to the grave. Maybe just left a note. Gone. Before my disease could spread. Before my pain became others.  
  
"Oi Matt, you listening to me?" I don't want to listen Tai, heard enough, I already know.  
  
"Matt?"  
  
"Hey Matt" Mimi, Sora. I'm sorry.  
  
"Matt" I'm going.  
  
"Yamato" I'm going already, leaving. Should've done it before.  
  
"Come back buddy" But you don't....?  
  
"Yoo hoo, Matt, land of the living this way." Wha...?  
  
Taichi?  
  
Huge brown eyes, ten centre meters from my nose. Frowning.  
  
I scramble away....sheets....leg caught....no more bed....oww, floor. Oww.  
  
He's laughing at me.  
  
"Gee Matt, I'm hurt, surely I'm not that scary of a morning"  
  
"Tai, what're you doing here?" He's in his school uniform.  
  
School.  
  
Time.  
  
8:40.  
  
Shit.  
  
Ahh! hey! There goes my tank top? What the hell?  
  
"Don't give me that look Ishida, arms up."  
  
Still completely confused, I obey and a shirt slips over my arms with a little less care than I would I would normally apply. Thumb caught in the cuff.  
  
"Jeez Yama, do you not eat?"  
  
Still talking he kneels down in front of me and starts doing up any old buttons, he jumps up grabs my blazer, shoving my arms into the sleeves.   
  
"Man, are you even awake?" He chuckles and throws a pair of trousers at me.  
  
He's gone from the room but still talking. I shove my legs into my trousers and he's back with a piece of toast, no butter, raspberry jam.  
  
Glancing at the clock I realise we're definitely going to be late and I haven't done my hair.  
  
Tai tries to give me the toast.  
  
"Time Tai, don't have time, hair."  
  
"Duh Yama, why do think I'm here, what'd you do to your alarm?" He follows me to the bathroom and tries to give me the toast again.  
  
"Don't Tai"  
  
"Matt, you have to eat, look, just take a bite." He holds the toast under my nose. Frowning at him I let him feed it to me as I attempt to tame my hair into something more stylish than a mop.  
  
"I don't want anymore."  
  
"Matt, eat," he looks slightly perplexed at the half eaten piece of toast, "One more bite."  
  
I roll my eyes and comply.  
  
"No more." I say rushing out of the bathroom.  
  
He follows me back continuing to talk as he polishes off the remains of my breakfast.  
  
Keys, got keys, wallet, yes, bag? Sweeping the floor of my room with my eyes I realise it's not there.  
  
"Oi Yama, come on." Tai's got it.  
  
Right.  
  
School.  
  
****  
  
"Matt, who dressed you this morning?" I looked down to discover several of my buttons were incorrectly....buttoned. Stupid Tai.  
  
Sora giggled. I wish she wouldn't do that. It's annoying. It's always annoying when girls giggle. Other girls always seem to join in. True to the female form, Mimi's doing that silly smile of hers and Hikari's grinning like there's no tomorrow. Although that could be because TK just sat down next to her.  
  
I can't believe I just spent the entire morning looking like a five year old who couldn't dress.  
  
I frown at Taichi as I button my shirt properly.  
  
"Matt, where's your lunch?" Not hungry Tai, leave it.  
  
"Here I've got plenty." He dumps a burger the size of Detroit down in front of me and he's still got enough food on his tray to feed three people.  
  
"Tai, I'm not going to eat that."   
  
He looks at the burger. "Oh, right, you don't like those buns do you." He picks it up and empties the middle on to the plate, taking the bread and using it to scoop up whatever that white, yellow stuff is.  
  
I sigh and he fishes out the tomato as well.  
  
I don't feel like arguing today.  
  
****  
  
School ends, but the day extends further.  
  
I want to watch Tai play soccer.  
  
It's only a practice game against the girls team. Him and Sora battling it out amongst the forwards.  
  
I love the way he can be so excited, so enthusiastic, and it's still only genuine happiness at having outsmarted the goalie or outmanoeuvred another player. He's not rubbing anyone up the wrong way.   
  
At least not purposefully. He doesn't hog the ball anymore.  
  
I pretend to do my maths homework.  
  
They finish up and Tai and Sora race each other off the field in my general direction.  
  
I get tackled by the both of them in quick succession.  
  
"I got here first"  
  
"No, I did Sora, you weren't anywhere close, right Matt." I blinked. He's staring at me....expectantly.  
  
I shrug.  
  
"Aww Yama, your no fun" He hauls me off the ground, "Are you coming to the game on Saturday?"  
  
"Are you coming to the girls game on Saturday," Sora butts in before I can answer.  
  
I just nod.  
  
She smiles.  
  
Tai claps me on the shoulder. "Quit being Ice man Ishida," I wish these blazers didn't have shoulder pads, "You've barely said anything today, what's up, are you still asleep?" I can feel the pressure of his fingers as he leans closer, pushing me to start walking in the direction of the gate.  
  
I smile for him. "Maybe thats it."  
  
He chuckles. "Ok."  
  
We pass by my place first.  
  
He hesitates before waving, looking at Sora. It's almost dark, he wants to walk her home.  
  
So I don't invite him in.  
  
I trudge up the stairs, unlock the door, walk in.  
  
And the day is over.  
  
I dump my bag in the bedroom, change, march out to the kitchen, remove the knife from the second draw, sit at the kitchen table and place it carefully in front of me on the laminated surface.  
  
It's exquisite.  
  
Blade reflecting the many shades of light creeping onto the metal.  
  
Me.  
  
I reflect the light.  
  
Reflect everything.  
  
Cold.  
  
I didn't wash it properly, there's food lodged in the crevice where the blade meets the handle.  
  
I clean it.   
  
Sit down.  
  
And I ask myself....Do I need to cut, do I need to cut, do I need to cut?  
  
Everything says yes.  
  
Except I'm asking the wrong question.  
  
Do I need to hurt myself?  
  
Yes, again.  
  
Do I want to hurt myself?  
  
No.  
  
No I don't.  
  
Maybe...  
  
NO.  
  
Shaking, everything is shaking, quivering.  
  
I don't know why.  
  
Want it to stop.  
  
A little bit of blood, just a thin red line.  
  
To walk that, just shuts everything down.  
  
A sudden fury makes me pick it up and swipe it across my arm, only slightly, hoping it will cut, no effort, accidental, quick pain, unintentional.  
  
But it's not sharp today.  
  
Less than a paper cut.  
  
Disgusted, I throw the knife back in the draw, go to the bathroom, strip and shower.  
  
The razor.  
  
I half heartedly run it sideways across the inside of my arm, hoping it will cut, it doesn't work. Only got rid of a few invisible hairs.  
  
I put it back and reassure myself of the knife in the kitchen draw.  
  
Dry, dressed and wrapped in my quilt, I pull my guitar onto my lap and pick out the tune I've been working on. I play the chords and hum, but I don't have any words yet. I don't quite know what I'm describing. What this song means.  
  
Eventually I move round to some of my more well know songs, softly singing as my hands move of their own volition, twisting here, curving there, strumming, plucking, they don't even need me to watch.  
  
I just play.  
  
Smile.  
  
Sleep. 


	2. A secret

Disclaimer: Don't own Digimon, sorry for not sticking it in the first chapter.  
  
WARNINGS: Shounan ai, thoughts about cutting, self injury, death. Could be inducive to cutting, beware.   
  
Thanks for the reviews people. Criticim is definitely welcome, I won't bury myself just cause you state your opinion.  
  
*****  
  
I, Yamato Ishida, have a problem.  
  
I readily admit I have a problem.  
  
I cut.  
  
I have since I was eight years old.  
  
I inflict injuries, my choice being with knives, on my body.  
  
But I'm not suicidal.  
  
Well, not at the moment anyway.  
  
Sometimes I sit with the knife and wonder if I should just...you know. But I always come up with a reason not to.  
  
Mostly TK. I don't want him to know how weak his older brother is.  
  
So I'm pretty damn sure that I would never actually go through with it.   
  
The longest time I've gone without cutting was for two years after the digital world.  
  
Right before I started again, I remember holing myself up in the house for days on end, feeling tense, my hands shaking like I'd run a mile, jumping every time the door opened, dropping things, shouting for no reason, snapping at my friends, so many things and arguments running through my head, starting a thought and shouting at myself to stop thinking. I remember a whole tonne of noise, when the apartment was completely silent.  
  
I just couldn't take it anymore, without even quite knowing what I was doing I'd pulled the knife out of the draw, lifted my shirt and was running the blade across my stomach, right hand side, below my ribs.  
  
Cold. A burning.   
  
A tiny heated line.  
  
I could see the edge sinking deeper, my stomach rising and falling, my fingers holding the skin flat, feel my breath wafting down.  
  
I just drew it across, slow, watching, till the point passed.  
  
Then sat.  
  
I remember being calm.  
  
Being amazed at being calm.  
  
Looking at my stomach and seeing only a thin white line speckled with red, the skin surrounding it turning pink.  
  
Holding my hand up and having it still. No shaking.  
  
Calm.  
  
And thinking, 'Oh shit, I have a problem.'  
  
Disgusted, I washed the knife, put it back, went and sat on the lounge and thought.  
  
I was distracted by it starting to sting, to itch. I kept looking at it. This red blotch off to the side, a red disjointed line down the middle.  
  
It wasn't even capable of forming a scab, yet I was fixated on it.  
  
Some part of me was standing off to the side saying 'Great, this is just great' while the rest was calmly wondering what to have for dinner, being happy because I'd managed to stay on one thought for more than a millisecond.  
  
It lasted for a couple of days.  
  
The calmness.  
  
I did think about doing it again. I was drawn to it. But the sane part of my head balked at the idea, remembered the burning, remembered afterwards how it was annoying, stinging in the shower, itching, irritating, wondering if next time, I'd go that little bit deeper, and how I might hurt myself badly.  
  
Like last time.  
  
So I didn't do it again till about a month and a half later.  
  
Again, it was only a line that barely bled. Apprehensive of doing more.  
  
But eventually that wasn't enough.  
  
I've done ones deep enough to leave scars.  
  
Sometimes I do it more than once a day.  
  
Sometimes I don't do it for weeks.  
  
Sometimes I think about having done it and wonder how the hell I ever could.  
  
But when my muscles are quivering, my hands are shaking, I'm standing up and sitting down, can't concentrate, blank out, feel not quite there, sad for no reason, wanting to do something but nothing at the same time.  
  
I remember that calm.  
  
The knife.  
  
I cut.  
  
I have a problem.  
  
I realise that.  
  
But bugger anyone who tries to stop me.  
  
They don't understand.  
  
I want them to. Sometimes I imagine them finding out, catching me. I imagine them panicking and telling me it's going to be alright, nothing's that bad, don't hurt yourself anymore.  
  
But you don't need half a brain to realise there's not a chance in hell of that ever happening.   
  
In my better moments even I look back and think how could I do that to myself.   
  
How would someone who's never even contemplated the thought of doing that possibly even begin to realise what it's like?  
  
They don't understand, probably haven't even heard of it. They'd think it was suicide. And if I explained they'd think it's disgusting. I can already see the reaction, see their disbelief.  
  
They'd never get it.   
  
They've never been there.   
  
They haven't drawn it across their skin, seen the blood, felt the relief, felt everything just settle.   
  
They haven't even sat there with the bloody knife looking at it as a release.  
  
They'd ask me to stop.  
  
But I can't.  
  
There's a problem.  
  
I could say, 'Yes, I'll stop, starting as of today, I won't ever cut again.'  
  
But there's a really big problem. One that wouldn't even cross their minds. One that really shows what an idiotic, weak, sick person I am.  
  
I don't want to.  
  
Because it works.  
  
It would be so great to just have someone wrap me in their arms, know what I was going through, and tell me that I was going to make it. That I had something to live for. That I was worth it.  
  
Maybe not just any old person. Truthfully. I wish Tai would.  
  
But that'll never happen. 


	3. to keep

I wake up to the phone ringing.   
  
Hauling myself out of bed, I put my guitar back in it's case and make my way out to the lounge room.  
  
Finding the phone, I pick it up and mumble into the receiver.  
  
"Msh, msh"  
  
"Hi Matt, it's Tai!" I hold it a little further away from my head.  
  
"Tai, the phone works fine."  
  
He chuckles. "Just making sure your up, I figured you wouldn't set your alarm, I'll be over in fifteen, can I eat breakfast at you place? My Mum's making something weird again."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Cool, see you soon." I place the phone back in it's cradle and look at the clock.   
  
7:15.  
  
Eh.  
  
Early.  
  
I feel like pancakes.  
  
Whilst gathering the ingredients, the pan, the measuring cup and other implements I'll need, I come across the knife in the wrong draw.  
  
I look at it for a second.  
  
The desire's not there.  
  
Funny that, sometimes the need is so great you find yourself with a blade to your skin as soon as you touch it.   
  
And if you can't cut you think about it, and every time you see something remotely sharp you wonder how well it would slice, how much would it take to break skin.  
  
Other times you don't even leave it space in your head.  
  
It gives you a vague sense of satisfaction, a hope that your not totally screwed up, when you find yourself halfway through chopping up the veggies and you didn't think about it, didn't want to do it, didn't remember that you had.  
  
Back before the digital world, I don't think I actually thought about what I was doing to myself, I mean, I knew it was wrong, but if I felt the need, I just did it.  
  
I'm more aware of what it is I'm dealing with now, I try and figure out what the problem is first, ask myself if cutting is really going to fix it, sometimes I remember to, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I cut either way.  
  
I'm flipping the first batch when Taichi let's himself in the door.  
  
"Pancakes Matt, for me?" he dumps his bag on the floor and pulls a chair out from the table to sit down.   
  
"No, they're mine." I chuckle at the mock dejected expression this produces, "But I'll graciously give you one or two."  
  
I slide the pancakes onto the cooling rack and pour another three dollops into the pan.  
  
"You are like, god of the kitchen or something Yama, these are delicious." I turn around to find him already halfway through his first.  
  
"Aren't you going to put anything on them?"  
  
He shrugs. "Next one, what do you want on yours?  
  
"Brown sugar and lemon."  
  
"Hmm, I might have to try that," he gets up and moves over to the fridge. "You had that last time as well." Digging around in the veggie keeper he produces a lemon then fishes the knife out of the draw.  
  
The knife.  
  
I fix my eyes firmly on the pancakes and listen as he slices the lemon into quarters. I can feel my heart pounding, my skin heating up.   
  
What if he finds out?   
  
What would he do?   
  
What if he took it away?  
  
I feel like he could all of a sudden realise, somehow notice.   
  
I want to snatch it away, hide it, I wish I had hidden it.  
  
He doesn't know, but if he did....  
  
He'd think I was....  
  
and....  
  
I can feel myself listening, making sure, double checking, has he noticed?  
  
Of course not.  
  
But has he?  
  
Idiot.  
  
Moron.  
  
Paranoid freak.  
  
How the hell is he supposed to know?  
  
It's just a blasted knife.  
  
Not like it's got a little tag saying, "Cutter, I'm used by a cutter, he's standing right over there." Not like he can see the blood that's been on it before, it's clean, its been washed, it's perfectly innocent.  
  
It's me who's....not.  
  
I shake my head slightly trying to clear it.   
  
Stupid.   
  
The pancakes are over browned. Stove is making me hot.  
  
I flip them. Not me.  
  
I calm down when Tai rinses the knife and returns it to the draw.   
  
Relief. I sigh then catch myself.  
  
I can't believe I just thought that. Idiot.  
  
Idiot.  
  
Idiot.  
  
Idiot.  
  
Humming to himself, Taichi leaps around the table and over to the cupboard where the brown sugar is kept. I smile. Got this image of Tai bouncing around the room. I feel the need to say something.  
  
"So, what'd you and Sora get up to?" Hmm, burnt pancake, I dump them on the rack and grease the pan for the next lot.   
  
I hate it when I feel like that. For some reason you think the world can see.  
  
"Oh, nothing, I just walked her home." His voice is muffled as shuffles the containers about, "You know," he pulls one out. "Next time, we should walk past her place first. Or we can go via mine and you can walk her home."  
  
Odd. "Why?"  
  
It's so obvious to yourself that you wonder how anybody else can miss it.  
  
"I don't know, she's just getting a bit annoying." He shrugs as he checks inside the container plonking himself back in his chair.  
  
"What did she do?" He wrinkles his nose and hops up again.  
  
You think the way your damaging yourself is broadcasted, you check to make sure no ones there when the room's empty, and you check again.  
  
"Nothing really, just being annoying." He comes up beside me and looks over my shoulder picking up the spatular. "Let me cook some while you go get dressed."  
  
Can he see?  
  
"Tai, we still have an hour till we have to leave." I make a grab for the spatular but he holds it out of reach.  
  
No.  
  
"Come on Matt, I promise I won't wreck them."  
  
"No Tai. I'm cooking breakfast."   
  
Do I want him to?  
  
"Yama."  
  
"Go away, and give the spatular back."  
  
Yes, yes I do, I want everyone to know how much pain I'm in, maybe they can fix what I can't.  
  
"Just let me flip one."  
  
"No."  
  
"Come on."  
  
"No."  
  
But at the same time I'm afraid, I don't want them to see, don't want them to know, look at me different, realise I'm weak.  
  
"Please."  
  
"Tai."  
  
"Just one."  
  
"No."  
  
I don't need them to tell me. It would only hurt more.  
  
"You did all those,"  
  
"NO."  
  
If he knew he wouldn't be here.  
  
"One"  
  
He'd leave.  
  
"Oh fine." I hop out of the way.  
  
I'd be alone.  
  
"Two."  
  
At least this way I can hope.  
  
"You said just one."  
  
Even if it would never come true.  
  
"And now I'm flipping all three. Go get dressed." He waved the spatular at me. "Go on, shoo." He happily counts the bubbles before giving me a sly grin. "By the way, nice hair."   
  
I retreat to the bathroom.  
  
Yeah, keep laughing you fatheaded idiotic moron.  
  
There's nothing wrong with my hair. It's just not done yet.  
  
By the time I get back out to the kitchen, the mixing bowl is in the sink, dads tucking into a couple of pancakes and Taichi's drowning a stack in golden syrup and cream he's procured from somewhere.  
  
I sprinkle a liberal amount of brown sugar over my own, squeeze the lemon, and surprise myself by actually eating all four.  
  
I suppose I didn't actually have dinner last night.  
  
Dad thanks me for breakfast before rushing off to work and Taichi settles down to watch the morning cartoons till we have to leave.  
  
I wash like one plate before Taichi comes back into the kitchen to drag me out and force me to watch the show with him.   
  
Oh well, it's mildly entertaining. 


	4. myself

I was hanging around outside the school gate waiting for Taichi when Kenjo, a keyboardist from my music class walked up. He'd been bothering me about starting a band for months now. Every time he sees me he asks again, and it's not that he's a bad player or anything, its just that, he's got a different style.  
  
So as much as I'd like to have a group to play music with, I'm not that desperate, it'd be like getting a tennis player and a skier and telling them to go play soccer or a sport that requires team work. Sure you'd come up with something, but it wouldn't be very good.  
  
Not to mention Kenjo isn't the easiest person to get along with, so we'd either end up fighting a lot or me standing down, which would really piss me off.   
  
Basically I guess it comes down to me not wanting to be used and run all over.  
  
I had the stupidity to try and explain all this to him.  
  
"Oh, I'm too much of a loser to be in a band with Yamato Ishida, big time star, Mr Popular?" This was one of those times where the little me with common sense was catapulted a very long way away.  
  
Somewhere where he could fall to his knees and moan idiot over and over without me having to hear. So I could get on with being said idiot, and not kick myself in the arse.  
  
It's a shot of confidence when you get the chance to insult someone that you really dislike and you know your not going to feel guilty over it later.  
  
"*Mr* Ishida wants some *decent* players, and oh, *Kenjo* only the best player in the damn music class, isn't *good* enough?"   
  
I pretend to think about it for a second, then lean forward and give him my most winning smile.   
  
"Exactly." Somehow I managed to stay completely calm as he roughly shoved me up against the brick wall.  
  
"You just can't stand the fact that I'm a better player than you, you can't deal with not being the star, you know I'd be the one leading, and you just can't take it." he hissed.   
  
"I don't have to take it. I've told you time and time again, I don't want to form a band with you."  
  
"You'll never get anywhere Ishida, not without me, I'll be traipsing the globe and you'll still be here fiddling with your little guitar."  
  
I snort. "Look, I'm not going to be walked all over by a little retard such as yourself who thinks he's good, says he's good, but couldn't play his way into a school talent quest let alone sell a CD."  
  
Woops, that one did it.  
  
He shoves me against the wall, pulls his arm back and slams his fist into my face.  
  
My head cracks back against the bricks, blinding. My eyes are tearing up, and it fucking hurts.  
  
But it's pain.  
  
Pain I can stand.  
  
Oh good, a fight.  
  
My muscles tense, I can feel my entire body gearing up for it.  
  
This slight twinge of joy.  
  
I get to hurt somebody *else* for a change.  
  
I look at Kenjo and smile.  
  
I feel like going psycho, which I am, but I want to feel it.  
  
I want to ache, throb, suffer, I want to be able to sit down afterwards and have the pain dance across my skin.  
  
I'm going to let it all out for once. Show someone how much it tears me up inside. I don't care if he doesn't realise where it's coming from.  
  
I want to hurt him.  
  
Bad.  
  
And I want him to hurt me.  
  
Bad.  
  
So I don't have to do it later.  
  
He slams a fist into my gut.  
  
I smile.  
  
I grab his arm as hard as I possibly can, squeezing it, imagining it snapping beneath my fingers even though I know it won't.  
  
It's a satisfying thought.  
  
Him screaming in pain as his arm cracks, the blood rising up underneath the skin, bruising, the....  
  
Suddenly Kenjo is ripped away from me, jarring my shoulder as I'm forced to let go.  
  
What?  
  
"Keep your hands off him!" It's Taichi.  
  
I could almost scream in frustration.  
  
The cold sweep as it's all suctioned away, stolen.  
  
Bloody Tai, what the hell does he think he's doing?  
  
My chest clinches as I try to send everything back into it's lodging, for later.   
  
I glare furiously at Kenjo who's now on the ground. I want to beat him....  
  
Taichi grabs his shirt collar and hauls him up.  
  
"If you touch him again, I swear I'll rip you in two."  
  
....black and blue.  
  
Kenjo stumbles backwards as Taichi releases him then turns and runs.  
  
I want to tear him apart....  
  
Taichi watches him till he's around the corner.  
  
....and see myself bleed.  
  
I clench my fists.  
  
I want to bleed.  
  
Taichi turns around reaching up to try and touch my cheek, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket.  
  
I jerk my head away.  
  
I want to hit him.  
  
"Here look, your nose." He reaches again.  
  
I backup. I can feel the confusion rising, I just want to hit something, kick something, beat the crap out of something. I hate trying to restrain myself.  
  
"Yamato."  
  
I shove him away and start walking.  
  
I'm going home.  
  
I'm going to the knife.  
  
I'm going to swipe it across my stomach.  
  
So it bleeds.  
  
I can already see it.  
  
Already feel it.  
  
My fingers twitch.  
  
Curl.  
  
Taichi's beside me.  
  
"What was that guy beating you up for?" It takes me a second to figure out how to make my mouth work.  
  
"Don't want to start band. With him." That's not quite right.   
  
Blade.  
  
My fingers twitch again.  
  
"He wasn't beating me up." I add.  
  
"Oh, that's why you were the one against the wall." Stupid Tai.   
  
"You walked up before it had even begun."   
  
Fast, swipe it fast, deep, blood.  
  
"So I prevented you from beating the shit out of each other."  
  
"Maybe he would've left me the hell alone."  
  
"If someone's beating you up I can...."  
  
I stop walking and look him in the eye. "I'm not helpless, I can fight my own fights. I don't need you to *save* me, if that's what you think you were doing."  
  
"Hey, I was just giving you a hand."  
  
"Well I didn't need it."  
  
"What is with you? I was just trying to...."  
  
"Help, I know, and I said I didn't need it!"  
  
"Well I think you do," he yelled "I think you need therapy, your acting like..."  
  
I punch him in the jaw.  
  
Shit.  
  
I get ready, expecting him to hit back.  
  
But he doesn't.  
  
Shit.  
  
I didn't want to hurt him.  
  
"I'm going home Matt." He walks away.  
  
It's gone again.  
  
Replaced by the cold.  
  
But it's creeping back in it's usual form.  
  
The one that twists and curls till everything is wound so tight I feel like moving my arm would rip out my middle.  
  
So I move it and it doesn't, and my mind sinks one notch deeper.  
  
Stupid Tai.  
  
Stupid bloody Tai.  
  
He had to ruin it didn't he.  
  
Playing hero.  
  
Blast it Taichi.  
  
You made me feel a whole fricken lot worse.  
  
I wish I could scream.  
  
Scream so loud all the feeling would be torn out.  
  
Knife.  
  
Fix it.  
  
I swing around on the footpath and all but run home.  
  
Restraint.  
  
Don't draw attention to yourself.  
  
I march up the stairs. Two at a time, four at a time.  
  
I shove the key in the lock. Twisting, jerking it back out.  
  
I barely manage to not slam the door.  
  
My room.  
  
I throw my bag in, it hits the other wall.  
  
Empty flat.  
  
Kitchen.  
  
I nearly break the draw jerking it out too far.  
  
I grab the knife kick the draw closed so hard it bounces back out again.  
  
I raise the blade, looking at it for a second, gleaming, cold, poised.  
  
Fury.   
  
I slam it, stab it, bury it as far as I possibly can, into the chopping board on the kitchen bench.   
  
I bend over it to lean my chin on my fist curled around the handle. The point digging into the plastic. Breathing too fast.  
  
Is that what you want to do to yourself?  
  
Yes.  
  
Like that?  
  
Yes. Only it would go so much deeper. Because I'm soft, I'm weak.  
  
Why?  
  
I don't know, because of everything.  
  
Because of everything.  
  
It hurts.   
  
I take the knife to my room. 


	5. sane?

I'd like to excuse my rather extended hiatus. *Clears throat* Didn't intend for it to last so long.   
  
*****  
  
You know, life is a load of crap. Every human being on this planet is an arsehole bogged down in playing their games, nothings real, everything's repeated. You can have the same blasted conversation multiple times in one day, nobody actually does anything interesting unless it's within these boundaries that seem to exist, the ones that few people even realise are actually there, for fear of becoming an outcast. They all just condition themselves to be the norm.  
  
I hate being human.  
  
I let loose a hiss and a few curses as I lift the guitar off my stomach.  
  
Blast, I've got blood on it.  
  
The air sweeps across my belly cooling my damp shirt. I can feel the skin separating again, it's a curious feeling, it stings a little.   
  
I feel a fleeting need to curl up and protect them. My cuts. My scars. My pain.  
  
But, strangely enough I'm feeling the most rational I've been in ages.  
  
I'm even feeling a little happy.  
  
Hopping up off the bed I concentrate on my stomach, feeling the edges of the new cuts stretching, accented by the shirt, the scabbing having adhered it to me.  
  
Placing the guitar on the bed and heading for the bathroom I peel the shirt away carefully and take a look at the damage.  
  
I stop.  
  
I can't believe I did so many.  
  
That smell, sharpish, metallic.  
  
I can't even tell, I've done them criss-crossing instead of parallel.  
  
I get a momentary lapse back into...to...what have I...panic...  
  
But I catch it before it leads anywhere.  
  
Pulling my shirt down, I wet a cloth in the bathroom sink and head back to the bedroom to clean my guitar.  
  
I started to hum as I stripped the sheets off the bed and changed into my pj's. But that made me feel too insane.  
  
I dumped everything in the washing machine, thankful for my attachment to the colour black, started the wash and went to bed.  
  
I lay there unable to sleep.  
  
I lapsed back again. All my muscles tensing. I held my hand across my stomach. Pressing them, making them twinge.  
  
Calm down. Need to calm down.  
  
I slowly relaxed before I remembered the knife I hadn't taken back to the kitchen and began fumbling beneath the bed for it.  
  
I felt the blade and ran my finger up to the handle, the slight, crusted irregularities flaking off.  
  
I can't believe I went so long without it.   
  
No wonder I've been feeling crappy.  
  
Three weeks and two days.   
  
Had I been trying to stop myself?  
  
Or did I just forget?  
  
Did I ever forget it?  
  
Was it worse now?  
  
Would I do it tomorrow?  
  
Did this mean it was back?  
  
I could feel the handle beneath my fingers, I raised it up in the darkness.  
  
I'd never cut in the dark before.  
  
Seeing what I was doing made it hurt less I think. I didn't want to hurt myself. I wanted to cut.  
  
Pulling my shirt up I laid the blade on my stomach. The contrast between the cool metal and my over heated skin made my abdomen flex and gave me goosebumps. I shivered.  
  
******  
  
I came back to consciousness slowly.  
  
The blankets felt heavy on my legs.  
  
Turning my head to the side I squinted at the clock trying to blink the blurriness from my eyes.  
  
Only 7:00.  
  
I ran my hand over the bed and began to stretch, realising that I hadn't put a new set of sheets on after taking the other ones off yesterday.  
  
The new cuts prickled and twinged slightly as I stuck my hands underneath my head and looked at the ceiling.  
  
I heard dad thumping about in the next room and wondered if I should get up and make him some breakfast.  
  
I didn't really feel like eating. I was hungry, but I didn't feel like eating.  
  
I stray piece of hair decided to tickle my nose, refusing to be blown away, I eventually brushed it all back and scratched my nose vigorously.  
  
I froze.  
  
Knife, where was it, was holding it, where'd it go?  
  
Jerking myself off the bed I ripped off the covers. Not there. Not on the floor. Not under the bed. Not on the cupboard. I threw the covers back on the bed.  
  
I could feel my stomach shrivelling, shrinking.  
  
I bent over, wrapping my arm across my stomach, squeezing my fingernails into the cuts, biting my knuckles. My eyes watered. The realisation hit me.  
  
Somebody had taken it.  
  
Somebody knew. Shit. Somebody knew.  
  
Dad.   
  
Idiotically relief swept across me before my heart constricted my throat closed up and I fell to my knees almost heaving.  
  
Somebody knew, oh god somebody knew. Oh shit, oh crap, oh frig, oh every fuckin profanity in existence. Somebody knew.  
  
I grinned giddily and rested my forehead against the floor.  
  
Dad knew.  
  
He must've checked on me last night when he came in.  
  
Please don't let him be mad.  
  
He would've had time to think it through.  
  
Don't let him be mad at me.  
  
He took the knife, he would've seen.  
  
What did he think?  
  
Was he going to be angry?  
  
Would he help or...  
  
My conflicting emotions on whether to be happy or scared of the situation drew to an abrupt halt as my mind came across the worst conclusion my being found out could have.  
  
Dread crept back in and I shakily got to my feet.  
  
How could I be pleased about it at all?  
  
Suddenly the horror of what I was facing hit me.  
  
What kind of moron was I?  
  
He couldn't help me. He didn't even know what I was facing. Anything dad came across that he didn't understand he either ignored or got rid of. I knew that. That's why I never told.  
  
He'd probably just pretend it didn't exist, or that I didn't exist. He'd send me away.  
  
Probably to some fricken asylum where they'd lock me up and I'd have no escape and they'd take all my stuff and make me talk to some fricken shrink who's never been where I have either then everyone would know and fucking hate me and hate me and hate me and....  
  
I was surprised to find tears running down my cheeks my limbs shaking again.  
  
Any relief I'd found last night was gone.  
  
How could I have been so stupid.  
  
Go to sleep actually holding the knife?  
  
My throat closed again.  
  
I'd have to explain it. Make him realise it wasn't that bad. Tell him I was getting over it. Act is if it didn't worry me that much. Play down his fears. Tell him it didn't matter. He didn't have to do anything.  
  
Desperation for somebody to just understand, to just be there, made my throat close up again.  
  
I'd wait for him in the kitchen.  
  
When I knew more of his reaction, when I knew what line he was thinking along, then I'd be able to tell whether he'd...help or....  
  
Wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I pulled the door open and padded out to the kitchen.  
  
The sight that greeted me was much, much worse than I'd imagined.  
  
It wasn't Dad that knew.  
  
Taichi was sitting at the kitchen table.  
  
*********  
  
I plan on getting as much of this story done in the next two weeks as possible. If you'd like to help me along, some criticism would be great and a few insults wouldn't go astray. It's shocking how helpful those can be when your attempting to drive yourself into a depressive little bundle. God, I'm so melodramitic concerning this story, I'm going to be such a wreck in a fortnight. 


	6. Hah, yeah

This particular chapter is rather graphic, and I think it's finally been bumped up to R rated. You have been warned.  
  
*****  
  
I stared at him in horror. He was in his uniform playing with an empty coffee cup.  
  
How long had he been here?  
  
He set the cup down and glanced up at me. He didn't look happy. "Are you feeling rational this morning." he said.  
  
I nodded slightly.  
  
What was he going to do? Would he be ok with it? Could he help?  
  
Shit. What could he fricken do? He may know, but he didn't fricken understand.   
  
Was I rational? Big word for little Tai.  
  
Bastard.  
  
Coming to my fricken flat every morning. Hasn't he ever heard of privacy?  
  
I stepped up to the table and lowered myself into a chair.  
  
I quickly removed my hand from the table. It was shaking again.   
  
I hate this, I hate this, why couldn't he just know? Understand straight away? Why did I have to explain.  
  
Folding my arms over my stomach I lowered my head to the table.  
  
Ok.  
  
He was going to want to know why. He's never heard of it and he's not going to understand.  
  
But maybe he could.  
  
If I explained it right, he'd be able to help me. If he was just there and knew what I was doing.   
  
My jaw clenched.  
  
"Matt." Right. Here we go.  
  
I raised my head and looked him straight in the eye.  
  
"What was up with you yesterday." I blanched.  
  
What?  
  
"Matt?"  
  
"I didn't mean to hit you, I was angry with Kenjo." My voice came out as barely a whisper. Was he just going to ignore it? Wasn't he even going to acknowledge it? Or was it really Dad and Tai just happened to be here?  
  
Tai gave me an odd look.  
  
"Well, it doesn't matter that much, I'd appreciate you not doing it again though."  
  
Shit. Didn't he know.  
  
Shit.  
  
He didn't....he didn't.  
  
I looked at Tai.  
  
He was smiling.   
  
"So Matt, what's for breakfast."  
  
He really didn't know.   
  
Dad wandered out into the kitchen in remarkably good spirits, rolled his eyes at Tai and grabbed a breakfast bar out of the cupboard.  
  
He frowned at me. "Your not looking too good Yamato, are you feeling alright?"  
  
I nodded.  
  
"Well, Ok then, I'll see you tonight, have a good day at school." He left.  
  
Neither of them knew?  
  
I got up slowly and stumbled out of the room and up the hall and stopped in my doorway.  
  
It was there. So visible I wondered how I'd missed it.  
  
The soft glint of metal peeking out the side of the head board.   
  
Nobody had found it.  
  
It was there all along.  
  
I felt very cold.  
  
I panicked over nothing.  
  
I'm not quite sure what happened. But next thing I knew I was tucked into my bed Tai muttering things about being sick, asking me if I was delirious, feeding me some pills and making me drink some water.  
  
I just buried my face in the pillow.  
  
I thought he knew, why couldn't he know, I wanted him to know, I wanted it to go away, I don't want to be here anymore.  
  
I curled in on myself biting into the suffocating fluffiness of my damn pillow. The heat from my breath curled against my cheeks making the next intake of air more difficult.  
  
Why couldn't I just die?  
  
It'd make life so much easier.  
  
Yeah, cause you wouldn't have it.  
  
Fuck, why did TK have to look up to me? Why did the others have to care? Why did Tai pay attention to me at all? Why couldn't it be for the reason's I wanted it to be?  
  
Tell him, I had to tell, just tell him, tell him please.  
  
Can't you tell him?  
  
No!  
  
Get it together Yamato, no one cares enough to ever find out so you'll just have to deal on your own. Quit being so weak. You can deal with it by yourself. What do you think you've been doing for the past couple of years.  
  
Yeah, you call that dealing? Nice choice.   
  
"Yama?" I shifted slightly so I could see him. "I'll come back after soccer practice this arvo."  
  
***  
  
I had a bad day.  
  
I've had them before.  
  
I daresay lot's of people have them.  
  
But I don't think many have bad days like I do.  
  
I cut.  
  
It's the kind of day where scars are created, the kind of day where I quite often turn that space between my ribs and hipbone into a red and bloody mess.  
  
The kind of day where everything is calm, I don't have a problem, I cut, and I like it.  
  
It's the kind of day where I used to wish there was no laws against carrying a blade, where, if I was leaving the flat I'd leave three times because I'd come back to cut again cause the first one wasn't bleeding enough.   
  
The kind of day that I look back on and it scares the absolute shit out of me.  
  
Because the worst thing about days like today is, that I don't give a damn.  
  
I'm happy again. If you could call my current state of mind that. I suppose, speaking in terms relative to the state my mind is in usually in, this could be called happy.  
  
But I'm also feeling more than a little bit out of it. I think I might've gone a little bit overboard today.  
  
I'm sitting in the kitchen with the knife when Tai arrives. I forgot he was coming.  
  
He's all muddy, sweaty, hair matted down and grinning like a loon.  
  
It must've been raining.  
  
I'm wearing a blood soaked shirt which is thankfully black, frozen to my chair, my insides feel as if they've done a disappearing act and I wish they'd taken the rest of me with them.  
  
But my fears are unfounded. He doesn't notice. As if he ever would. He's too blind.  
  
I'm thankful for that.  
  
"Hey Matt, you feeling better?"  
  
I nod.  
  
"Do you mind if I have a shower, I kinda smell." He crinkles his nose to emphasise his point.  
  
"Yeah, go ahead, I'm just about to make dinner," I look at the knife I'm holding, "Steak ah la Yamato."  
  
WHAT in the name of....!  
  
"Great well, I'll be quick." I hear him clump up the hall and dump his stuff in my room before moving into the bathroom.  
  
Shit your a fuckup Yama.   
  
Idiot.   
  
I look at the knife, flip my shirt up and drive the point across watching the blood seep out. It's unsatisfactorily shallow.  
  
What the hell do you think your doing?  
  
Cutting.  
  
I listen to the shower start. He won't come out for a while now.   
  
I'm safe.  
  
He won't catch me.  
  
I'll just clean up when I hear the water stop.  
  
I pick a place to cut again. There's not exactly a lot of room on the right hand side of my stomach anymore. Maybe I should do the other side. Or my arm.  
  
My arm.  
  
I place the blade near the crook of my elbow.  
  
I didn't even hear Tai walk in, the only thing I felt was the knife being ripped out of my hand and the pain in my stomach as I threw my arm up to prevent myself from falling backwards.  
  
The chair teetered for a second before toppling over.  
  
I hear him dump the knife in the sink.   
  
"Yama, what were you doing?" I look up at him. He's white as a sheet wearing only his boxers and staring down at me in horror.  
  
"Cutting." Oh well, he knows now. Shit, I can't believe how calm I am.  
  
"Your arm?" he shouts incredulously. "Why?"  
  
"It helps." He really doesn't look very good. "Maybe you should sit down."  
  
Then I see it. That slight tinge of disgust curling his lip. He swallows.  
  
"Were you committing suicide?"  
  
I try to stay calm then, but it doesn't work. It's obvious he's not going to understand. It's in his face.  
  
His eyes flicker over me and land on my belly.  
  
"What happened to your shirt?" I turn away. "Yama show me."  
  
I pause for a second longer then I slowly lift the hem revealing the criss crossing lines to the first set of eyes that aren't my own.  
  
He tears out of the kitchen and I can hear him throwing up in the bathroom.  
  
Well who'd have thought Taichi couldn't stomach blood.  
  
Shut up!  
  
I haul myself off the floor, the anger picking at me cruelly. Viciously I kick the fallen chair across the room and cling to the table.  
  
I stare at the sink but Tai comes back before I can move over to it.  
  
My mouth keeps watering but my throat is dry.  
  
I think I nearly collapsed, I was so dizzy. Everything spinning.  
  
I turn to Tai, trying to focus.  
  
"Don't do it again." He looks me in the eye. "Don't."  
  
"I'll do what I bloody well please." I snarl.  
  
"Yama..." he looks panicky, "You can't."  
  
"And why not." He's going to say it.  
  
"You just can't, it's wrong...it's..." Please don't say it, Please don't Tai, Don't, Please don't. "...sick."  
  
I want to die.  
  
Shame lights a fire in my belly and it spreads across my limbs, burning, my scalp crawls and I try to swallow the pressure building up in my throat, my head is pounding, roaring.  
  
He thinks I'm sick.  
  
Disgust.  
  
Sick.  
  
See, it's been confirmed, you knew it all along. Your a sick little weakling. What are you going to do? Deny it? It's the truth. Right out of the mouth of your very best friend. Taichi Yagami. Can't you just see him wanting to wrap his arms around you now. Yeah, give poor little, weak, sick Yama a hug.  
  
He'll never help, the only release you'll ever have, the only outlet, the only relief you'll ever feel is right there in that blade and he's trying to take it from you.  
  
He knows.  
  
He'll tell.  
  
He'll tell everyone.  
  
And you'll end up in some little room in the centre of a mental house blabbing every last one of your precious fears to a quack and a bunch of loons like the pathetic weak fuck you are.  
  
"Get out." I hiss. He has to go.  
  
When he doesn't react I yell it instead. Grabbing his arm I haul him towards the front door.  
  
I stare down at him as I jerk it open.  
  
If he cares he'll stay, if he cares he'll stay.  
  
"No" I've startled him.  
  
"Leave."  
  
"No." He's uncertain. Please don't go Tai, you have to see. Can't you?  
  
"Now."   
  
I can see the defiance settling in his features, the little crinkle in his brow. I don't show it, but relief tickles the edges of my anger. He's going to stay, he...  
  
"Fine, let me get my stuff." He whips around and marches up the hall to my bedroom.  
  
I struggle to keep my balance.  
  
He's going. He can't.   
  
Can he?  
  
He comes out with his shirt and trousers on, his bag over his shoulder and marches into the bathroom.  
  
He's really leaving.  
  
I hear the cupboards opening and closing.  
  
He comes out of the bathroom, staring me down and goes into the kitchen.  
  
When I hear the cutlery draw being jerked open. I realise what he's doing.  
  
He's taking them.  
  
He stares me down defiantly as he exits the kitchen.  
  
"Put them back." I can hear my desperation and I hate myself for it.  
  
He doesn't bother answering, just pushes past slamming the door behind him.  
  
I punch the wall.  
  
It fucking hurts.  
  
I need something.  
  
Something sharp.  
  
Frantically, I search. Nothing in the kitchen, nothing in the bathroom. He's taken the razors and all the knives, the skewers and funnily enough, the grater.   
  
They're gone.  
  
I curl into a little heap on the floor pressing my cuts.  
  
Pain clenches my chest.  
  
He's gone.  
  
I didn't want him to go.  
  
Why couldn't he see.  
  
Would he come back.  
  
I had nothing now.  
  
No release.  
  
No calm.  
  
No cutting.  
  
Then I remember.  
  
In dad's room.  
  
Rolling to my feet, I rush to the bedroom, pull out my bottom draw and dig around at the back.  
  
It's still there.  
  
Pulling out the case, I unlatch it and carefully remove one of the razor heads from the leather, close it again and put it back.  
  
Dad's travelling case.  
  
I take it my bedroom.  
  
I tried to cut with a razor once before.  
  
The little pieces of plastic that held it together were too difficult to pull apart.  
  
I steeled myself and ran it across my inner arm.  
  
Bloody hell, why is so easy to cut yourself accidentally, but when you try to do it purposefully it won't bloody work.  
  
I took it too the kitchen, placed it on the bench, got the hammer out and whacked it.  
  
Retrieving the pieces that had skittered away I took it back to the bedroom bending the little blade. It's so thin.  
  
Lying down on the bed I pull up my shirt and start dragging it lightly across my stomach, and it just sinks.  
  
The edge disappears, barely feel a thing after the it first catches on the skin. It just goes deeper.  
  
I can't believe it's so easy.  
  
Half an inch long. I take it away.  
  
Blood already dribbling out.  
  
The knife cuts beside it are huge.  
  
Inches long.  
  
I had to saw some of them, running it across a couple of times to get it to go deep enough because the knife hadn't been sharp.  
  
This just....  
  
I do it again.  
  
It goes deeper and deeper.  
  
I take it away and watch.  
  
Again.  
  
Again.  
  
Again.  
  
Bright red. Making it's way between the hairs, pooling at the edges of other cuts.  
  
Again.  
  
I can feel myself slipping.  
  
Sliding away.  
  
Falling.  
  
*****  
  
Thanks to all those people who've reviewed so far. Means a lot, but criticism people, you know, somethings wrong, not up to standard, just cause it's posted doesn't mean it can't be fixed.  
  
Oh, and don't anyone of you dare take blade to skin, if you feel the need you can blasted well write it in a review or email me at mazza2869@hotmail.com.  
  
The lot of you go read some comedy to cheer yourselves up. 


	7. Sanity

Have you ever woken up in the morning and realised that yesterday you fucked up your life? I kinda wondered if I should start counting. You see, when you come to that realisation...again, you sorta wonder exactly why you thought your life wasn't broken anymore. It's not really the sort of realisation where you say, 'Oh dear, I've fucked my life up even more.' It really is a 'Crap. I just fucked myself over'.

I'd been half awake for hours just lying there in the dim light. Ideas, thoughts and vague emotions all running around my brain, dipping away while I dozed and emerging again when I came back to consciousness.

I was viewing a lot of Taichi; different ways I could've handled him and the situation. I wished so badly that I could've done it properly. I'd planned it out so many times. I'd planned to sit him down and talk about it. I'd planned to tell him that it was ok but it wasn't. I was going to have him to depend on. He would be there for me. I wouldn't have to deal with it alone and he would've been caring and comforting and sad for me when messed up. He would be there.

Taichi was always supposed to be there.

Instead I was lying in this darkness with my own blood on my hands. My loneliness encompassing me and my own sick, twisted method of consolation competing with the ache present in my chest.

Yesterday I'd let more blood than I had ever lost in one sitting. I'd marked myself with pointless scars; not patterns, not designs, just ugly lines that would heal into a mass of purpling scar tissue never to fade from the surface of my skin. They were there forever. Always a reminder. Always a sign saying 'This guy is fucked up.' 'This guy is weak.' 'This guy couldn't deal with what life gave him.'

I would always be hiding; keeping my secrets. I would always be separated from everyone I knew. And now, I didn't have much hope of anyone ever accepting me.

Taichi was the only person I'd ever felt truly connected to. He'd put up with so much of the other shit I'd flung his way that I'd been dead certain he'd at least stick around and try to figure out what was wrong.

It would've been crappy to try and explain though. He's so happy all the time he probably doesn't even know the meaning of sadness, at least not to the extent that I do. What goes on inside my head; the way I think and feel and rationalize can't be voiced by mere words or expressions. I can't tell him what I mean. I can't even show him what I mean. He'd ask why; why do I cut? Why do I do this to myself?

But I don't have a reason. I don't know why the fuck it all happened. It's not something I just decided to do one day.

As far as I could see, there WAS no reason. No meaning; no answer; no explanation or rationality. There was no basis, no point at which I could say 'This is where it started.' 'This is why it started.' All I could see was that I wanted to cut; I wanted relief; I felt the urge; I wanted blood; I wanted comfort; I needed to feel; I needed the calm; I needed to be real. I wanted to know that I actually existed and that I wasn't some broken shell. But none of that tells me or anyone else why I felt that way in the first place.

For that, I have no reason.

No fucking reason at all.

I glanced over at my alarm clock.

6:00am.

I was confused for a couple of minutes.

What was I doing awake at this hour of the morning? It was too early to be waking up even if I had slept for nearly thirteen hours. I wanted to stay stuck in that drowsy oblivion. I felt slightly cheated that I hadn't done more damage to myself.

I wanted to be in pain. Pain was familiarity.

I rolled onto my back. My cuts were still seeping. I could feel them gaping open as I began to stretch. Lines flickered. Slits reopened. Sharp little pinpricks, jabs and twinges all flitted across my stomach as I slowly rose my arms above my head and bent myself backwards to relieve my aching limbs. A chill swept across my belly as air crept up beneath my shirt. The deeper cuts began to throb slightly and I felt the edges of an earlier gash slowly peel apart. Shorter one's snapped open. Other's managed to hold closed. But each one that gave in and split allowed me to painlessly stretch just that little bit further. It didn't hurt, exactly. It was more a vague burning. A prickling sensation. Lot's of tiny little sparks.

The thing I could feel most was the way dried blood held my skin constricted. It had plastered all of my hairs to my stomach and was tugging on them as it was pulled taut.

A sudden cold trickle darting down my stomach alerted me to the fact that I was bleeding again. I smiled. Maybe no more razors today, though I doubted enough blood would flow from reopened wounds to satisfy my urge to see it.

I flipped my t-shirt up so I could take a look at the damage and was a little startled at how extensive it was.

My belly was a black red scaly mess; cracks welling brighter fluid which trekked it's way across and between the shattered black glass already littering my pale skin. Lumps of congealed blood, brittle and split. The smell, warm and thick, invaded my nose.

I stared down in fascination at my mutilated flesh. My inner portrait.

This was me.

Fucked up Ishida.

In all his glorious pain.


	8. What's that?

I spent the day mulling around the apartment, watching TV and thinking about what to cook for dinner that night. Then I got a call from Dad around 7pm telling me he wouldn't be home until tomorrow. I abandoned the food I'd started preparing and sat in my room playing my guitar. If Dad wasn't here to eat it I wasn't going to make it and despite the fact that I hadn't eaten anything all day I didn't feel hungry enough to feed myself either.

I just wanted the world to go away. I wasn't sad, just in a state of not caring. I felt very washed out and I kept losing time. Minutes disappeared, then hours.

I woke up on the floor of my room at 2am then again at 4. For some reason I thought I'd gotten up and gone to the kitchen but I woke up at ten to 7 still in exactly the same position. I found it very difficult to keep my eyes open and my limbs somehow felt detached. I'd move my arm but I wouldn't feel it lifting for a few seconds. My whole body felt heavier than it should.

The strange sensation wore off after a couple of minutes and I fought off the dizziness to get up and get ready for school. I felt vaguely hungry but decided to have a shower first as my hair really needed a wash and, well, my stomach was still crusted with little black flecks of dried blood. If I missed breakfast I could always eat at school, but my appearance kind of had to be dealt with now.

I don't know how it happened. It was kind of like I'd gone to sleep standing up. One minute I was washing my shoulder, the next I had scalding hot water pouring down over my head.

I jerked away. Hit my head. Then thought to get out of the shower. I was blinded by white light and felt myself slipping on the bathroom tiles, then I was halfway through getting up even though I couldn't actually remember having fallen down.

I managed to get myself back to the shower and turned the cold tap back on, staying conscious long enough to rinse myself off and get back out again. Then I woke up on the couch out in the lounge room with nothing but a towel draped across my middle.

I think I would've stayed there if someone hadn't been trying to beat down my door. I could easily have just gone back to sleep and ignored everything for the rest of the day. But I was conscious enough to remember that I was supposed to be going to school, so I attempted to shake off the sluggishness and rolled off the couch.

My vision turned black for a second but came back in a series of colourful bursts. When the dizziness wore off I stumbled down the hall and into my bedroom to find clothing.

I was so out of it. I knew I wasn't thinking clearly. I couldn't even walk straight. But by the time I was halfway dressed I'd figured out my visitor was Taichi. He was yelling at me to open the door while he pounded his fist against it's wooden surface and so as soon as I'd forced a shirt over my head I stumbled back down the hall and complied.

He was angry; absolutely furious, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I didn't even bother greeting him, I just turned and wandered back to the couch.

I was waking up again and remembered I was supposed to be eating food. But once I sat down I didn't want to get up. So I stayed there staring at Taichi while he glared at me from across the room. He kept looking like he was about to say something but then he'd close his mouth again and look away.

Suddenly, I didn't much feel like going to school, or rather, I realised I wasn't likely to make it out of my building let alone walk to school and stay awake in class.

"I'm not going to school, I'm staying home." I drawled. My tongue didn't seem to want to work it's way around the letters. I don't know why I even bothered to say it. I think I was hoping he'd just go away.

Taichi glared it me. "Schools over, moron. It's 4.30 in the afternoon."

That shocked me. Where did the day go? Taichi seemed to notice my surprise.

"What have you been doing?" He pushed himself off the wall and walked towards me. "Were you drinking or something? Where's your dad."

I had to think about that one. "I haven't seen him."

Taichi didn't like that. "Since when?"

"He didn't come back. I don't remember." He'd phoned at some point, but that was lost to the blur. "I think he had a conference."

I turned to look back over at Taichi and discovered him right in front of me. He was frowning. It made me uncomfortable. He reached a hand out towards my face and I tried to duck out of the way but movement was somehow delayed.

"Yama, you're really cold."

I watched his face change as he picked up my arm. "You didn't eat, did you." It was a statement, not a question. He lowered his eyes for a second and I think he might've been grinding his teeth. I couldn't hear it but his jaw was clenched.

"I don't remember." I said quietly. I took my arm back and wrapped both around my middle.

I flinched as the rough material of my shirt rubbed against my stomach. Taichi noticed and tried to take my arm again.

I wanted to curl in on myself so he couldn't get at me and pry my arms away, but he was much too close to me and I couldn't go backwards. He already knew. He was getting angry. But I still didn't want him to see.

"Stop it, Yamato. Just let me look at it." He grabbed my wrists and tried to lift up my shirt. I struggled out his grip, bringing my knees up so I could kick him out of the way. He fell backwards but then he stood up and attacked me properly.

The tussle was violent despite the fact that I could barely fight back. Flailing limbs still hurt when they hit you. It made Taichi really angry. I was yelling at him but he was yelling louder.

"You did it again! Why'd you do it again? Huh?!" He was on top of me and he was so much heavier than normal. "Why, Yama? Why would you do something so stupid? What's wrong with you? Why didn't you tell me?"

"As if I'd tell you when you're reacting like this?" I yelled back. I tried to kick him off but I was getting stuck in the couch cushions.

Taichi shook me. "Why did you do this to yourself?"

He stared down at me, waiting for me to answer. All I could see was his eyes and all I could feel was his hands and knees digging into me. I tried to think of an answer, I tried so hard, but there was no explanation. I didn't even have a plausible lie. There was no reason except that...I wanted to.

"I don't know."

Taichi looked disgusted.

He crawled off me and disappeared into the kitchen. I could hear him thumping around in there; opening and closing cupboards and draws. I lay there looking at the ceiling instead, still buried in the couch even though Taichi wasn't there to hold me down.

So that was it, huh. I cut because I wanted to.


End file.
